


Not a Fetish, Merely a Keen Preoccupation

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Definitely Very Hot, Even if Feet Aren't yr Thing?, Foot Fetish, Foot-fucking, I Don't Even Know, It Does It For Me That's All I Can Say, John Fucks Sherlock's Feet, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sherlock Jerks Off Too, Sort of Cute in Spots, Yes Writing My Own Prompts Again, but not fluff, i don't care, so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*<br/>A sort of second chapter to my "Five Times John Ignored Sherlock's Feet (And One Time He Didn't)", wherein--you guessed it--John fucks Sherlock's big gorgeous feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Fetish, Merely a Keen Preoccupation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Times John Ignored Sherlock's Feet (And One Time He Didn't)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582762) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> For Jinglebell, because she's down.
> 
> This story picks up literally the next second after the previous one ends, so you might want to read the other first (it's short, and cute), but it's not necessary.

 

 

John was immediately self-conscious.

“If you don’t—“

“Shut up.” Sherlock fished in the pocket of his dressing gown momentarily, then tossed a couple of foil packets of slippery into John’s lap.

“All I’m saying’s we don’t have to.”

“John.” Sherlock shot him one of his own stock facial expressions: _shut up, idiot-of-whom-I’m-very-fond_.

Still. “It’s just that I’ve been. . .Everything else is all fine. I mean, it’s enough for me. It’s—“

“We all have our particular paraphilias, John. Stop vamping.”

John was thrown a bit, couldn’t let it go by. “Do _you_? Have a fetish?”

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock smiled, wide and slow and dirty, and shifted his bottom closer to John, correcting the angle of his knees and ankles.

Christ! They’d been at it for months—how had this not come up before? John had kept quiet because if he was honest, he felt  vaguely embarrassed to have become so keenly preoccupied, and it wasn’t as if he _needed_ to have access to Sherlock’s feet in that context. And certainly he never thought it rose to the level of a fetish—at least no more so than his particular appreciation of Sherlock’s deeply honeyed voice, or of his lower lip just begging to be bitten. “So, what is it?” John demanded.

“Believe me, you’ll know when you’ve found it,” Sherlock teased mildly. He pressed the balls of his feet, lightly but rhythmically, against the front placket of John’s jeans. “Nevermind.” His eyes were half-closed as he adjusted the pillow behind his neck. “We’re doing your one at the moment.” Both sets of toes began to glide back and forth a bit, and John’s prick throbbed at the sliding pressure up and down the length thickening behind his fly. He let his eyes roll back, then close. He slowly stroked the palm of one hand down the top of Sherlock’s right foot—then his left—from ankle to toes.

John let out a shuddering breath at the feel of the sharp tendons shifting beneath his touch, the skin so thin there, Sherlock’s toes curling vaguely as if it tickled. Frantic desire grew into a noisy buzz inside his head, drowning out his bashful self-doubt, and he briefly rearranged Sherlock’s feet so he could unfasten his jeans and slide them down, pants and all, to pool around his ankles. When he cradled Sherlock’s ankles in one hand to lift them back into his lap, Sherlock hummed a little sound of encouragement, and began to drag his long fingers in a slow slide over the front of his pyjama bottoms, lazy and noncommittal.

John gathered up the little packets of slick. “You just carry these around with you all the time, by the way?”

Sherlock only smiled.

John tore at the corners of the packets with his teeth, drizzled a generous stream over his fingertips and rubbed his thumb in circles against them, spreading and warming. He slid his flattened fingers between Sherlock’s arches and caressed those steep, soft curves, and he couldn’t help it—he groaned, low and deep, his brain playing him a random-shuffle slideshow of what it might be like: his cock fucking up between these long, pale arches; John’s fingers dipping between Sherlock’s toes as he positioned him; the smooth skin of Sherlock’s soles, here and there a bit callused and rough, catching his foreskin and dragging it back as he. . .

He was getting _far_ ahead of himself.

John slicked his cock with a few long, swirling strokes, eyes closing, mouth open—practically panting now with the anticipation—then braced the root of his prick to thrust up at what he thought might be the right angle. Sherlock’s heels were resting on one of John’s thighs, and he curled and uncurled his toes leisurely against the inner edge of the opposite one, like a cat kneading with its paws, his ridiculous, finger-like toes unsettling the hairs there, brushing them in every wrong direction. John maneuvered his less-slippy palm beneath the balls of Sherlock’s feet, and flexed them back out of the way, guided his cock beneath.

Sherlock’s impossibly beautiful feet moved toward each other, and the soles tipped inward, and the space between his arches lessened as he slid his feet slowly— _god too slowly, but slower, but tight, oh please tighter_ —down, then up, then down again along the length of John’s thrumming cock.

“Oh my god. . .”

Sherlock let go a quiet, questioning hum. _All right? Is it good?_

John cradled Sherlock’s feet in his hand, applied pressure to bring his soles a bit closer together, and let his pelvis do as it liked, which was to adopt a slow, insistent roll up, and up, and up into and through and past the slick warmth between Sherlock’s pretty feet.

“ _Fuck_!” John bit out. But he was rapidly realising it wasn’t like fucking into something close and tight like a pussy or a mouth or an arsehole; there really weren’t many points of contact. Sherlock’s turned-in ankles and slightly overlapping toes created a ring of smooth flesh, slick and warm and gorgeous, but. . . “I need. . .” He braced his wrist against his own thigh, and raised Sherlock’s toes, flexing him at the ankles, so that now John’s cock was rocking up along the whole length of Sherlock’s arch, from the base of his heel, between the soles, until the crown of his prick surfaced again near the plump, rounded, cushiony mound of flesh beneath Sherlock’s big toe.

“Jesus, fuck, that’s perfect,” John grunted, and wrapped both hands around the top third of Sherlock’s feet, the wiry hairs of his big-toe-knuckles tickling John’s palms; all those pretty, perfect long toes caught in the cage of John’s hands. The pace of the fucking picked up, the muscles of John’s arse and thighs working to rock his prick up and then retreat back, through the warm, slick tunnel between the soles of Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock let out a long, purring, “ _mmmmm_. . .” and John turned his head to face him. John tried to stop but couldn’t really stop, though his thrusts became slow and shallow.

“Is this doing anything for you?” John asked then, and it wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he essentially did not—at the moment—have much invested in Sherlock’s appreciation—or lack thereof—for this act which was bringing John an intense crackle of pleasure that pinged around his brain, shot down his spine in an electric tingle, and made his bollocks feel huge, straining hard against the now too-tight skin encasing them. Still, he thought it polite to ask.

“Not really,” Sherlock admitted in a murmur. “But your face is absolutely gorgeous while you’re at it.” He tilted his chin toward John, then cut his gaze to his own lap. “See?” John verified with a quick glance that Sherlock’s cock was at least partially hard beneath his pyjamas, and Sherlock’s fingers were lazily travelling along its length, over the thin fabric; there was a damp spot gathered near the crease between belly and thigh. Sherlock’s voice dropped even lower, in pitch as well as in volume. “Does it feel good? Do you like it? Do you like finally fucking my feet like you’ve been dying to for the past seven months, three weeks, and five days?” His mouth turned up at the corner.

John  huffed a half-laugh that Sherlock had deduced exactly the moment when John’s _Good god, those big feet of his are bloody gorgeous_ , had shifted to _Good god, I want to wrap those pretty feet of his around my prick and fuck them and paint them with my cum_.

“It feels fucking _amazing_ ,” John told him, and beckoned him without words. Sherlock took the hint, pressed himself up first to his elbows, then grabbed the back of the sofa to pull himself upright without really moving his feet or legs. They leaned across the awkward arrangement of their bodies just enough to exchange a short but deep kiss, tongues sliding together and teeth tugging on lips so that they both came away breathless and with a renewed sense of purpose. On his way back down to the pillow behind his neck, Sherlock licked his palm and fingers, and his hand disappeared beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. John shifted the angle of Sherlock’s feet a bit, squeezing them together near the top of the slit he’d created so that he had to push harder to get his cock all the way through, feeling every millimeter of the slick drag of Sherlock’s skin against him as he went. John braced himself with flat feet against the floor and his thighs and arse began to lift off the sofa cushions a bit as he fucked up between Sherlock’s soles. Quiet, desperate grunts of deeply pleasurable effort escaped his throat each time he pressed through the length of Sherlock’s arches. “Oh, fuck. . . _fuck_. . .Sherlock. . .”

John let his head drop back, bit his bottom lip, thrust harder, jerking up, sinking down, and he let one hand slide down along the top of Sherlock’s foot from his toes toward his ankle, dragged his fingertips over and around the jut of his ankle bone, squeezed the Achilles tendon until Sherlock hummed his own pleasure at the feel of John’s blunt-tipped fingers massaging him. Bursts of light and colour exploded behind John’s closed eyes, and he zeroed his focus to the tight heat between Sherlock’s perfect, pretty, _huge fucking feet, oh, god it was glorious. . ._

“John. . .” Sherlock commanded. “ _Look_.”

John dropped his head forward, and he did look—opened his eyes wide, watched the throbbing-red crown of his cock thrusting up, glistening with pre-cum, his foreskin shifted back by the friction of Sherlock’s roughsoft soles, Sherlock’s gently sloping arches, Sherlock’s gorgeous feet in his lap, in his hands, wrapped around his prick, Sherlock’s beautiful feet that John had been fixating on for, yes, many long months and weeks, and days, and now he was finally— _jesus, finally_ —giving them the proper fucking they so well deserved.

“Aww, fffffuck!”

John’s hips juttered and he let out a low growling moan as his orgasm lit through him, his cum jetting up and then splashing down along the edges of Sherlock’s prettily arched feet, in the dip between the first and second toes of his right foot, across the inside of his left ankle. “Jesus that’s beautiful,” John gusted, and Sherlock’s feet fell away from each other as John’s hand dropped onto the sofa cushion beside his own thigh. Sherlock gratefully stretched his long legs, flexing and pointing his cum-streaked feet across John’s lap. John let himself sink into a few boneless sighs of breath, settling back to himself bit by bit.

There was a vague flurry of activity beside him, Sherlock shoving his pyjama bottoms out of the way, exposing his own busy hand as he pulled his long, pink prick with quick, loose strokes.  John made quick work of rearranging their bodies so that he hovered over Sherlock and could kiss him, ducked his head to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, against his neck, into his hair, into his open mouth, _you’re so gorgeous. . .that was incredible, so fucking hot. . .yeah do it now for me Sherlock, will you? will you come for me now?. . .you made me come so good with those pretty feet of yours, I’ll never forget it. . .oh look at you you’re so close, you’re so close, Sherlock, I can see it in your perfect face. . ._

Sherlock let out a long, low “Ohhh. . .” as he came, and John kissed him and nuzzled against his hair and went on whispering filthy nothings until Sherlock was spent and languid beneath him, and John leaned in for one last kiss, Sherlock’s mouth pliant and open for him.

“You have to tell me yours,” John said, and worked himself up from the sofa in search of something he could use to clean up Sherlock’s feet, and now the back of his hand and his wrist as well.

“My what?”

“Your fetish.” John squeezed out an already-sopping kitchen rag he found in the sink; it would do.

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and he wriggled his head softly against the sofa pillow, getting more comfortable.

“We’ll just have to keep trying new things until you deduce it,” he said, and he smiled.

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: fuckyeahfightlock  
> Twitter: @FicAuthorPoppy


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